A Scotchman in Jamestown
by musubi7
Summary: AU. Scotland, in step with his constituents, comes to America in search for a little piece of independence he's lost since James became king. He doesn't expect to run into another Nation, but Fair Handed Fate has other plans. Told from Scotland's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**PART I: 1628**

**I. Departure**

England may have sired America, but there was no doubt among the other Nations that it was Scotland who raised him.

For starters, no one _knew_ of America's heritage until centuries after his birth. And at the time, England was far too busy building an Empire, visiting the West Indies, commandeering goods from Spanish sailors; not being on Island and allowing older siblings to gather their things and flee with their constituents to the New World.

It was 1628, and Wales had volunteered to stay behind, much to Scotland's chagrin, in order to deflect England's certain wrath.

"I'll be fine," Wales said to Scotland. A cool breeze kicked up leaves and newspapers and moans of hungry children. A street lamp flickered, an array of moths finding solace in the heat and light. Scotland was not a man of words or emotions, and even less a man of interpreting them. He pressed his lips together. A pinch and rumble coursed through his stomach. When was the last time he'd eaten more than bread crumbs?

"You need this more than I, Craig," Wales insisted. The corners of Wales' mouth upturned— a small smile, barely visible in the dim light.

Something shattered in Scotland's heart. It twisted and tugged and pulled until it wretched itself away and settled on his shoulders. The streetlamp's glow splayed orange over Wale's freckle-nosed face. His summer leaf eyes now the color of autumn. The corners wrinkled with guilt's burden, little dark clouds forming underneath.

Wales resembled England, or perhaps England resembled Wales— more scrawn than brawn. His clothes were too large, rolled sleeves billowing behind him like kites' tales. Musty blonde hair fell into his eyes and gathered too much along the nape of his neck.

And it was at that moment, when Scotland's eyes caught Wales' once more, that the oldest British Isle Nation realized this would be his last memory of his brother. And Scotland did what he hadn't done in centuries.

He pulled his brother into a tight embrace.

"T-take care of yourself," Wales sputtered.

Scotland was the first to retreat. A bitter wind blew from the east and he pulled his color up to his ear. His steps were quick. The vessel was sure to be leaving soon. He could only hope and pray that his youngest brother would not harm Wales.

* * *

**II. Mountains**

Nations were drawn to each other, like troubles were drawn to Scotland. What little food he could scrap together on the ship was being regurgitated over the side. For a moment, he was thankful for being a Nation—the amount rumbling of his sides surely would have killed an ordinary human. Once he'd reach the New World, Craig promised himself a large home, and larger acres to toil and harvest.

Jamestown wasn't quite what Scotland had expected, but it was home for now. There wasn't the hustle and bustle of London. The outlining forests past the city's limits were visible. Humidity stained his shirt, but after two months at sea, Scotland hardly noticed, and if he had, cared less. Tobacco and timber laced the sweet, salty ocean air. To this day, Scotland insists that is the smell of blessed freedom.

Scotland wasn't sure why he chose to build his home near what was obviously the richest man in the township. It was two storied, evenly painted with a small patch of English roses in the backyard—he could spot his half-brother's national shrubbery from a mile away. There was a hallway window on the second floor that faced Scotland's home. If he were in bed, he could peer into the life of the rich man—well, at least his corridor.

The back of Scotland's mind tickled with familiarity; there was something about the house that drew him to it. At the time, Scotland insisted it was the view.

In two months, thanks to his considerable strength, he'd constructed a makeshift home that would probably fall apart if any ill weather made its way to the coast. From his position, he could watch the sun set over the heads of forests. The mountains, more large hills than formidable foes, stood in silence, as if a wall daring him not to venture past its realms. Tempting him to travel west.

The sky over those Appalachian Mountains rapidly shifted into a deep crimson-orange, almost the same shade of his sister Ireland's hair. He wondered how she was doing in her own house_. _He prayed to the Lord that she would stay strong in these growing tremulous times.

That shade turned deeper and whatever feeling of nostalgia had come over him was gone. Scotland held a tin cup filled with a swirl of heavy black coffee, with some leaves still clumped in it, took a swig.

"One day," Scotland mumbled to the mountains. He set his cup down with a _plink_ on the splintered table and made his way to bed.

* * *

**III. Encounter**

To this day, Scotland despises being awakened from his sleep. It must have been a little past two in the morning when a blood curdling shriek ripped him from his slumbers that night. Scotland slept with a knife under his pillow and a rifle under his bed. In an instant, he was on his feet, armed: knife in one hand, rifle around his torso. He'd heard stories about Injuns and what they did to the new settlers. Granted, he was a Nation, and they were mere humans. But that didn't mean Scotland wanted to unnecessarily end a life.

Scotland looked to the left and the right for the source of the sound. After a few minutes with no other disturbances, he let his adrenaline seep off. Whatever it was, it must have seen the knife and rifle and thought otherwise. He replaced the knife and rifle and stepped back into bed. Scotland sighed and ran his hand through his short, thick chestnut hair. His eyelids closed. Not a second had passed in darkness when—

The shrieking picked up again. _Waaaaaaah! Waaaaaaah! _Scotland was on his feet again, this time armed only with the knife. It took him a moment to place the sound—

The cries of an infantile baby.

It took him another moment to place to location—

His neighbor's home.

"No, no, no, no," Scotland grumbled. There could not, _should not_ be a baby out here in the wilderness. What mother would be so daft as to actually come out here in the first place? He grabbed his pillow and shoved it over his ears, hoping to smother out the sound. Nothing was working.

Soon, light bloomed inside the second story window's frames. Scotland could make out the shadows of a woman, the nurse, hopefully. She opened window and silk curtains billowed in the sudden breeze. Scotland noticed that the woman must not have been over the age of fifteen. The grievances against his neighbor were adding quickly. A fifteen year old should be with her _own_ family, not tending to another man's.

"What's wrong, Honeysuckle?" the girl asked the infant in somewhat hysterical voice. The infant did not reply, only wailed in protest. The girl bit her lip and began to cry herself, barely able to stand.

Scotland was not a man of words or emotions, nor was he one for interpreting them. After watching the girl's disposition crumble, and the baby's voice to escalade in sound and frequency for what seemed like hours, it finally dawned on him—

She didn't know what in the hell she was doing.

Scotland wasn't great with children, but he had reared two. At this point, he couldn't do anything worse than the girl had.

* * *

**IV. Recognition**

"Me name's Craig. I'm here to help," Scotland said in a husky-just-out-of-bed voice. The girl's eyes were swollen and her nose tomato red. The infant still writhing and screaming in her arms. She nodded and invited Scotland in the house. With only the candlelight, he couldn't see the house, but he was certain it was just as elaborate on the inside as it was out. The girl led him inside to the dining room; she struggled with the infant, now waving its arms in protest for being moved.

"I'm so sorry," the girl choked, her heritage from Northern England obviously revealed in her voice. She handed the baby to Scotland. She nearly collapsed into the wooden chair. Craig slowly sat across from her. As she rambled excuses for her lack luster performance (she mentioned something about not being good with children, and that most usually burst into sobs when she is near), Scotland found great interest in the infant, who equally found great interest in the man holding him.

He stopped writhing and stopped screaming.

"What did you do?" the girl asked in wonderment, staring at the infant as though he were the Holy Grail.

Scotland shrugged, fascinated with the infant in his arms.

The boy must have been no more than a few weeks old, the size of a small loaf of bread. His blonde hair, almost the same color as ready-to-harvest wheat, sat up in tufts. The ruddiness in his face calmed down, to what Scotland had to assume was his normal complexion. The boy's eyes are what caught Scotland's attention—June blue with an extra glint from the candlelight most humans did not possess.

A small smile crept onto Scotland's lips. An aching sensation ebbed into his chest. He reached out to graze his fingers through the infant's down soft hair. A small hand, a sixteenth the size of his palm, reached up, and gripped his index finger with surprising strength.

"I'm afraid that Lord Kirkland has been away again," she said with an exhausted sigh. "He can usually keep the baby quiet."

"Kirkland?" he inquired, looking up. The infant mewed, now that attention had been turned away from him; Scotland gave the infant a little squeeze, quieting him.

"Yes. Lord Arthur Kirkland. He's the richest person here, and apparently has connections with Parliament and the Royal Family. I'm not sure what he's doing, though. There are only ruffians here in Jamestown."

"Whose…whose child is this?" The infant made a giggling sound as Scotland returned his attention to him.

"I'm afraid that I'm not sure. Lord Kirkland said he found him crying on the outskirts of town. No one would take him in, so he did. Resemblance is uncanny though."

There were two thoughts that went through Scotland's mind. The first—Nations couldn't bear children with their constituents. The only exception out of almost three thousand years of history was Prussia, a Nation born from a Tribe and a human knight. The chance of him laying with one of the Tribes was such a ridiculous idea that it never crossed his mind. The second—Arthur Kirkland was incapable of compassion towards anyone or anything, especially infant children. He would sooner leave it to the dogs to feast upon then take it in and raise it. He seemed to be falling short on the latter, though.

"Hmm…look at that," the woman said, stifling a yawn. "He's asleep now."

Scotland stood to give the child back to the girl. The infant rolled into Scotland's chest and gripped his shirt. The woman tilted her head, and smiled. The candle light flickered and the bags under her eyes seemed more emphasized. She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "Isn't that precious? I think he likes you."

Swiftly, but quietly and reassuringly, the girl took back the boy into her arms. He squirmed, but fell right back asleep. She reached for the candlestick on the small table.

"Thank you," she said, rocking the infant side-to-side lightly.

"What's his name?" Scotland inquired.

"Alfred," she said. "Alfred Farley. I suppose you may add Kirkland on the end, though it is not official."

It took every fiber of will in Scotland's mind and soul _not_ to comment on how _unlikely_ a name that was for an adoptive son of _Arthur Kirkland_. The arrogant bastard would probably make his offspring a "second."

"Well, then," Scotland looked around the room, as if he were looking for something else to say. He didn't want to leave quite yet, but now that…_Alfred _was asleep, there was no reason for him to be around anymore. The girl stared at him, blinked once or twice, waiting for him to finish his statement. "Suppose I'll be leavin' now."

"Will you come again tomorrow?" the girl wondered, a pinch of desperation rounded her voice. "Lord Kirkland won't be back for another week or so. Mammy watches him sometimes, but it is just the two of us, and neither of us seems to get the same reaction from him as you do."

It took Scotland only a moment to think about his answer.

"Absolutely."

* * *

**V. Confrontation**

England's ship came home early.

Scotland was in the backyard, holding Alfred by the armpits, with the baby's feet on top of his. Many months had gone by, and there was no indication that Alfred was anything more than a human baby. Already at eight months, he was learning to walk, making more complex sounds than mews and moans. Alfred could recognize Scotland, and seemed to prefer him over Mammy, the black Slave, and Anne—the young girl from their first encounter.

"Left," Scotland said, taking an exaggerated step. "Right. Left. Right."

Alfred giggled and pulled his feet up.

"No, no," Scotland said, holding back a smile. "You're going t'learn how t'walk today young man."

Alfred looked up and grinned at the Nation, two small teeth visible. He pulled his fingers to his mouth and sucked on them, making "_dap_" sound. Scotland rolled his eyes and picked up the child, resting him on his chest. Alfred was trying desperately to make him smile, but Scotland was unaccustomed of such facial expression. But there was something about Alfred that made him at least twitch his lips; and something kept him coming back.

That scared him. Nations weren't supposed to become attached to humans. It made governing them unnecessarily complicated. It wasn't like Alfred was his constituent, but if a human baby in the New World could influence him so, what of his People? When he returned home at the end of the year, would they be able to bend his will like a sapling twig? Should England invade, would he succumb to living in his house because he came across a poor, destitute family who only _wanted the fighting to stop_? What if he gave in?

But it was hard _not_ to fall in love with that smile or the genuine glee Alfred had when he scampered across the floor to Scotland's feet moments after he'd walked in the door.

The late afternoon sun splayed shadows long across the yard. Upon later thought, Scotland would realize that was why he hadn't seen the figure crossing the grass.

"Craig."

A familiar voice.

Scotland turned his attention from Alfred and looked _down_ at his half-brother. Though he was still growing (quite ostentatiously too), he was quite diminutive, only rounding out five-feet-four-inches.

England.

Not being one for pomp and circumstance, England was dressed in a scarlet wool overcoat, a silken doublet, dark wool breeches, silk stockings, silver buckled shoes, and an absolutely _foul _disposition.

Alfred could sense the mood change and leaned into Scotland's chest.

"What are you doing here?" England asked, crossing his arms.

"I'm taking care of _your_ responsibilities," Scotland said, motioning to Alfred, finding much interest in the thick hair on Scotland's arms. He could feel his blood hum. England hadn't said more than ten words, and he could already feel the need to maul him with his bare hands.

"What of _your_ responsibilities on the Isles?" England hissed. "Jamestown is _mine_. I have reason to travel over two thousand miles. What of you?"

"My people are here, Arthur."

England rolled his eyes. "Wonderful." He harrumphed. "I suppose I should construct something to dispose of the _bad influences_ within my colony."

"Not with James on the throne."

"Perhaps not," England said. "But, I can keep my Colony—" he reached for Alfred "—away from them."

"Colony?" Craig asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Alfred made a _brrrrrp_ sound at England, which elicited a grin from the Nation. England looked back at Scotland.

"Yes, Colony," he said as if Scotland had asked what color the sky was. "You didn't think that all this land wouldn't have a Living Nation, would you?" England chuckled under his breath, laughing at his own joke. "This is America. He is the Living Nation of my colonies, even the religious lunatics up north. And I would appreciate it if you unhanded him and returned him to me."

"How do you know?"

"You couldn't tell for yourself, Craig?" England raised a curious eyebrow. "You need to come out of the Highlands more often."

"_How_ do you know?"

"It's in the eyes isn't it?" England said, softer now, looking at Alf—_America_—who brrrp-ed again, reaching towards England. "And you can feel it, can't you? Right here."

England made a motion to his heart, right where Scotland felt he'd been struck the first night he'd met Alf—_America_. It made sense…why he chose to build his home next to England's unknowingly.

Alfred's Nationhood would explain why once he'd settled in that Alfred began screaming and crying throughout the night. It must have been frightening for such a young child to _feel_ another Nation's presence without solace. It would also explain why Mammy and Anne couldn't comfort him.

"Is he _yours_?" Scotland asked, retreating a half-inch.

"I am quite certain he isn't. I just found him—"

"You just _happened_ to find a Child Nation? So help me God, Arthur, if you sired a Child Nation and left him by himself with a _human girl_, I'll rip your testicles off and shove them down your throat."

"No need for such language, Craig, not around the children." England brushed a spot on his shoulder. "Sweden and Finland were here before me. Spain has known of this location for at least a century, and so has France. Perhaps it is theirs. I care not. He is a Colony, and will grow to be a prosperous one in my care_. _He should consider himself lucky it was I who found him and not the Catholics."

England leaned on his knees, eye-to-eye with the Colony. "Hello, America. Have we enjoyed our time with Uncle Scotland?"

America smiled brightly and squealed again, reaching towards England, tapping his face and nose. For a moment, England's soul made a surprise appearance, and he genuinely smiled back. America reached for England with a wave of strength Scotland hadn't expected, loosening his grip. The baby slipped easily into England's outstretched arms. England propped him on his hip.

"If I were you, Craig," England said with his devilish grin, "I would be on the next boat for Scotland."

"My people are here, Arthur. I have as much a right to be here as you do."

"Now see, there's the rub isn't it? The difference between you and me: _You_," Arthur jabbed Scotland's chest with his index finger, pushing him back another inch or two, "are a subsidiary country to my own. Your people may be here, but I am the ruling Nation."

Scotland's lips pulled into a thin white line. His heart pounded against his chest, ears burning. _Alfred's in his arms. Alfred's in his arms. _

"We share the same king," Scotland reaffirmed through grit teeth. "That doesn't make me a lesser Nation than you."

"In due time, Scotland. In due time."

Scotland twisted his heel in the ground, a physical reminder that he could not strike England right now. He chewed the inside of his cheek until iron spilled out—he spit to the side.

A breeze rustled the grass like ocean waves, and shook the roses. England's unruly molded hay hair blew into his face and for a moment, Scotland could see his Viking roots, just waiting for the right moment to appear. Despite his noble dispositions, he was still a child of the Norse: a brutal savage with only the blood of their mother to save him.

One day, he would show this brat his place in life. He had failed before, but given the right time, equipment and—

His eyes fell on Alfred

—ability, he'd be able to do it.

"Dada!" America cried. His arms reached forward towards Scotland, and wriggled, trying to pull himself out of England's arms and back into Scotland's. Scotland's defenses crumbled a bit and he smiled back at America. "_Dada!_" he said a bit louder.

For hot second, England looked as though he'd been punched in the gut. His upper lip curled and he snarled, disgusted that his beloved Colony would _dare_ call _Scotland of all Nations_, father. America squealed. England turned on his heel and walked back to the house.

Alfred's cries rang louder as they approached the house.

Scotland had never been a man of words and feelings, nor was he one for interpreting them, so when England came back outside after handing the baby to Mammy, he let his fist do all the conversing for him.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**The Scottish and Irish influence in American culture is nearly incalculable. Most notably, their music influenced what would become American Country Rock. The Scottish began their trek to America in the 1600s and after the Cromwell Revolution, immigration picked up quite rapidly. The early Scots lived mostly in Virginia and south of that. One of the biggest conglomeration of Scots was in Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia—the "Hillbilly States." While there were many Welsh immigrants to America at this time as well, I've chosen to keep Wales on the Isles for literary purposes.**

**Jamestown was first established in 1607. Tobacco was introduced as a cash crop by John Rolfe in 1612. England was very, very happy with this economic development. While it was considered the capital of the Virginia colony for some time, eventually the capital moved to Williamsburg and the town fell into obscurity.**

**King James was the king of both Scotland **_**and **_**England from 1567-1625. He is known as James I to the English and James the IV to the Scots.**

**Alfred Farley? Alfred **_**Farley**_**? Now, before you guys get your panties in a twist, I've got a real reason for using that name. Farley is an old, now very rare English name meaning "fern clearing." This is also based on my drabble fic, "Fairytale," where England, instead of duking it out with France, Finland and Sweden for custody rights, finds infant America on the outskirts of town. In those outskirts? Fern plants. **

**It was either Farley , Franklin, which means freeman, or Fenton, which means marsh town.**

**Babies begin making complex sounds around nine months. Even though Alfred has said "dada," he has no idea what he's saying.**

**Other Notes:**

**Well, hello there headcanon, it's nice to see you all fleshed out and almost nearly finalized. I'm sorry if I'm stomping on toes with this, but I'm part of the small minority that says Nations are born and not made. With that, Nations are not immortal, only graced with an exceptionally long longevity and youth. I'll be getting more into their family dynamics in later parts (hopefully this thing won't balloon past three parts). For now, just know that England and Scotland share a mother, Mama Celt. England's father is Daddy Viking Character (don't mind the unfinished headcanon, please). Scotland's is Daddy Celt.**

**In my headcanon, Scotland looks like a young Gerard Butler and sounds like Craig Ferguson. **_**It makes sense**_**.**

**Oh, and I'm sorry for wonky formatting. destroys what I have on Word. :**


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II: 1708**

**I. Correspondence**

_Sir Arthur Kirkland,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health; little good can be said of your brother's. He has not only found, but exploited your personal rum library. I believe he had a particular penchant for the bottles of 1678. You also may find an article or two of yours broken upon your return, but rest assured, we are trying our hardest to locate damages, repair them, when we are able, and replace them when we cannot. I have tried my best to keep Sir Kirkland sedated and happy, but it seems to be of no avail._

_Your eldest sister, Lady Fiona O'Kirt, visited. Her presence was much appreciated and like a breath of fresh, crisp air. I suppose your absence had something or another to do with her arrival, but it was nice to see her again. Lady O'Kirt is in good spirits and disposition, although she worries a great deal over the state of Sir Kirkland. Despite this, she sends you her best regards._

_I trust my Nephew in name only, young Alfred, is well? From what you spoke of him in our last correspondence, he seems like a charming and respectable young man. He will be a handful, I'm sure, when he becomes older, but it is nothing the Kirklands cannot handle. Will you be presenting him to the courts in the near future? I'm sure Queen Anne would be delighted to meet such a character. The Good Lord knows Fortune has not been bestowed upon her since her coronation._

_I have heard in my visits to the local tavern—only to escort Lord Kirkland thither and back—that the colony is growing rapidly and attracting more and more colonists. I suppose then that he should be the height and weight of a child six or seven years now, yes? I can recall when you were that age. You were always grumpy and wanted little or nothing to do with us. I suppose nothing has changed since then._

_I wish you the best of luck on your survey voyage, and bid you to come home as rapidly as possible. I am unaware if I have failed to impose the severity of Lord Kirkland's disposition, but it is quite ill. I fear, not only for the things in your possession and your once quite impressive rum collection, but for the state of the Scotland as well._

_Godspeed,_

_—Lord Trevor Kirkland_

_Trevor,_

_Please inform Lord Kirkland that after the Acts of Union, signed as of thirteen months ago, that he is within my kingdom, that no matter how many gallons of rum he chooses to consume, Scotland's independence and sovereignty is no longer an option. I care not what the economic status of Scotland is; the mere fact that the heathen barbarians to the north of us is finally within my jurisdiction is plenty comfort to me._

_If he so chooses to drink himself and the country to death, it is of no consequence to me. Remind him as well, please, that he is the eldest of the Kirkland tribe, and is acting no more maturely than a petulant Colony._

_ I rescind my earlier statement of it being no consequence to me. I can't nearly have as much fun with Craig if he's in a comatose state or dead. Ask him which he prefers: walking, or spending the next three decades in a jail cell with broken legs, cut off completely from his precious liquor. _

_Your last letter, Trevor, was quite vague. Just how much rum has our eldest brother consumed? Should I even be bothered to ask, or should I simply break his legs and throw him in prison now?_

_Young Alfred is a splendid child, who, as of now, appears to be of seven or eight years. He is growing much more rapidly than I had anticipated, but the profits speak for themselves. I suppose we both can drink to the prosperity of this colony, and breathe a sigh of relief that Providence has blessed me with such a bountiful land._

_Pass my regards to Lady O'Kirt—though I highly doubt she neither gave her regards in truth, nor will she receive mine warmly._

_I shall return when I return, and not a moment too soon._

_—Lord Arthur Kirkland_

**II. Family**

When there's a knock on the door to his study, unless it is France or a political attendant, England would not tear himself from his work. His desk was littered with papers, things that needed to be read, needed to be signed: the swirly handwriting of his queen, a schematic from the East India Trading Company, a memorandum from Parliament, the first pages of a ready-to-be published book, news from home, the a letter from a dear friend in Cambridge, Wales' correspondence.

A creak.

The door opened and the candle flickered with the new air currant.

"England?"

"What is it Alfred? I'm quite busy."

The candlelight continued to flicker, throwing shadows over what England tried to read.

"If you intend on standing in the doorway all night," England said over his shoulder, "I would suggest you return to bed."

"I was just wondering…"

"Yes?"

"…Um…Sir..."

"Please, Alfred, I've not the patience to—"

"Do Nations have mothers and fathers?"

England looked up from his desk, eyebrows cinched, strewn desk suddenly forgotten. He turned to Alfred, a small thing, not even four feet yet, with a tuft of blonde hair and a stray lick in the corner. The door is tilted towards him, a shield, sky eyes hidden in the shadows.

England motioned for Alfred to come inside. There was a small crate in the corner, once filled with new bottles of rum and wine now stored securely in his cellar downstairs; Alfred used that as a chair. In brighter light, Alfred's features were more pronounced: the kisses of angels in his skin, the roundness of youth in his face, the fear of God in his eyes.

England turns in his swivel chair to face Alfred. "Now…what brings about this sort of question, hmm?"

"Matthew was talking about his."

"And what did the lad say?"

"He talks about his mother...all the time. Says she was the prettiest woman in the world. That she had long black hair and had big brown eyes like a deer. Says she sang real good, but wasn't good at cookin' none."

"Sang well. Wasn't good at cooking," England says automatically. Alfred pulls his knees close to his body and looks at England over his knees. "What else did he say? Sit up properly."

Alfred did as he was told.

"He…he asked me where my Mother was. I couldn'…_couldn't_ answer him. And then I thought… where is my Mother? Do…do all Nations have mothers?"

England wasn't comfortable answering questions he didn't know the answers. He didn't remember being born. He didn't remember parental figures. The earliest memory England had was of the white cliffs of Dover, the enchanting fae and Scotland dragging him by his ankles through the woods for meals. He remembers Ireland, Wales and Scotland…but there was never an older figure…not even a shadow of one.

So he did what he was good at.

Lied.

"Oh, well, I'm sure she's out there somewhere, Alfred," England said, lips pulling into a slight, nervous little smile. He could lie with the best of them, without the faintest touch of remorse. But one look at Alfred...young, impressionable— it'd been a long time since England had come across such a young Nation—he couldn't lie to the lad without the crushing weight of guilt he was certain only Catholics could impose.

Alfred didn't smile back. Instead, his eyes seemed to water, as if he'd been popped on the nose, and the corners of his mouth twitched. He pulled his knees close to his chest again.

"Why…why did she leave then?"

England sighed heavily, and ran his hand through his hair. How many times had he explained the nature of the Nations to the little Colony? How many more times was he going to have to explain it before he finally understood?

"Being a Nation is a very difficult thing, Alfred," England explained, "as beings governed by our kings, our land, our people and our God, we have higher responsibilities than that of the ordinary human being."

"I know," Alfred said, lowering his eyes.

"Then what is it, lad?" England asked, leaning back into his desk chair. He steepled his fingers and studied the boy. Alfred had always been a bit too sensitive for England's liking, and these sets of questions seemed only to emphasize that. Perhaps his absence caused the boy to yearn for some sort of parental figure in his life. England had learned most of his National duty on his own, a bit he learned from France. As a budding Empire, he played most of it by ear.

Alfred scrunched up his face, trying to put the words together and build the courage to actually say them.

"Did," Alfred's voice cracked, "did she not want me?"

"_Desire_ is not an option for us Nations," England replied with cool pragmatism.

England wondered if raising Alfred would have been easier if he had simply done what France had with Canada, and called him "mon fils,"_ my son. _It would be one myth, one explanation. No extraneous lies, just a bedtime story, enough to comfort a growing Colony of his anxieties. He wouldn't necessarily be happier, but there would be an answer in the gaping hole in the lad's mind of, "where did I come from?" and "am I wanted?"

England had squandered those thoughts long, long ago.

"Wipe those tears, boy."

"Yessir."

Alfred did what Alfred was told.

England looked back at the candle; the light had fallen some, though not dramatically. There was still much work to be done, England thought bitterly. The work never seems to end for a Nation. The conversation, obviously over, England swung his chair around, back facing his Colony. Perhaps the child would understand that tears and sentimentality were two qualities Nations could not afford. Pondering the philosophy of origin was left to the humans. Despite the constant nag, the constant desire to know their purposes—it was just as strong in Them as the next human constituent.

At the very least, humans had God to comfort them, Holy Scriptures and customs to reaffirm their existence and meaning (however wrong they were). What purpose was there to a single person who embodied a political entity and geographic land? Eventually, even the greatest of Empires fall victim to destitution, destruction and death. Who was their Savior? Who then, did the Nations turn to?

England's quill twitched in his hand.

'Twas a silly question to ponder.

"Do you require anything else?" England asked, over his shoulder.

"No, sir," Alfred said, sliding off the crate.

"Right then, off to bed."

**III. Mistakes**

A rock cracked against the back wall with a _snap_ missing its target by mere inches.

"Now, Scotland, really. Is this the sort of behavior that is supposed to warrant you independence?" England asked with a smug grin.

It took every bit of Scotland's restraint, and the iron shackles securely around his wrists and ankles, _not_ to reach out and slam England's face into the rough granite below them. He only heard his breath, his heartbeat and the water trickling into the stone's crevices some way's down. There wasn't much light, only the amber flame from the cell's torches, throwing deep shadows across the younger Nation's pickened face.

England opened the ironclad gate, closed behind him with an echoing _ping, ping_. He put his gloved hands behind his back and strode closer to Scotland with the callous stride of an Inquisitor.

"Let me out of here, England," Scotland growled.

"Why? So you can trash my house more?" England examined the face of his boot for a moment. In a hot flash, that boot face was in Scotland's side. And the mighty Nation collapsed, wheezing for breath, oxygen just a whisper's width away.

The kick wasn't hard enough to break the rib, but enough that he'd be feeling it for a few days…maybe a week.

"You are more of an imbecile than I believed if you think I'd let _that_ happen again," England said over Scotland's sputtering. He brushed his boot on the back of his calf, sweeping the resin of his sibling's skin, as if it were something dirty. Six months underground would do that to anyone though, Nation or otherwise.

The younger Nation, a budding Empire, as he liked to consider himself, walked in a half circle, looking over the Nation before him. Unshaven. Unclean. Haggard from starvation. Desperate from having no booze. England chuckled at the site. Such misery. Such destitution. It was no wonder that colony failed to inhale a breath of Life. It was no wonder the eldest Celt had finally come to him, in desperate need of civilization and manners.

"You have decimated my rum supplies, Scotland," England said with a slice of a smile. He crouched, face to face with Scotland and leaned in, despite the wretched smell. "I do not appreciate it when my rum is always gone."

Scotland spit in England's face, the glob landing right next to his straight, freckled nose. The young Empire was instantly on his feet and delivered a swift kick to Scotland's jaw.

"You arse!" England cried, wiping the spit off his face with a cotton handkerchief. "I give you a roof over your head and _food to eat_ in your time of need, and this is the thanks I get?" his voice reverberated off the stone walls. "When was the last time before last year that you had a full meal, Craig?"

Scotland's chains rattled as he tried to stand, the grating metal and atrophied muscles pulling him down. He could feel them, he could _feel them _in his heart. The _thump-thump_ was powered, not only by himself, but by the bonds of his people. There were some who had not fallen so easily into England's hold. There were still some who cried freedom.

"It don't matter to me!" Scotland bellowed. "I was me own country!"

"You haven't been your own country since James, and don't try to say otherwise!" England stopped and scoffed. "You could hardly move you were so hungry. After Darien—"

That chord. That little chord tucked deep behind his heart, in the place where he was Craig and not Scotland. It twisted and boiled and was white hot. Scotland lunged to his feet, only to be brought slamming down to the cold stones again.

"You shut up about him!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have I brought up sore histories?" England asked, louder still, placing a hand to his heart, as though the bastard Nation had any sort of sympathy in his body. "We are talking about the same Darien, right? The…the _thing_ of you and that native woman?"

"I swear to God, England…"

"The little one without _nose _or _ears_?" England asked, rage tweaking his cheeks ruddy. "With skin so dry and course, it stretched like a harlequin costume? The scarlet eyes of a demon? That sputtered and moaned for its return to the pits of Hell. It was a sin against God! It couldn't even _breathe_ the air of hu—"

Scotland had never been a man of words. It wasn't a very large rock, but it was no small thing either. Scotland wretched his arm back, and with a satisfying _crunch, _England's kneecap bent at a 10 degree angle to the left.

The budding Empire collapsed with a scream, holding his knee. The bone slowly filled with fluid, swelling as the moments passed. He writhed in pain, hallowing, crying, cursing Scotland and his barbarian blood.

"You're fucking lucky I had enough fucking pity to take you in after that. I fucking should have just let your country fucking collapse."

"Maybe you should have."

**VI. Sun**

With the strength of his government and his people's culture and pride, England was back on his feet, fully healed in only a matter of days. Had he been fully human, it would have been another month or two, and probably would have died. England had no use for his toy, Scotland, and paid little attention to him.

On July the 5th, 1709, Queen Anne, on behest of a Sir Arthur Kirkland ordered for the release of Craig Kirkland from prison, and to rescind all his titles and duties.

In other words, a non-Nation.

A Nation alive, but without proper sovereignty over their country. Scotland was nothing more than a Colony, an ant on the bottom of England's shoe, as he trekked his way to world domination.

Scotland was outside for the first time in nearly eighteen months. The sun was warm. The sky was clear. Markets were buzzing with fervor. There were things to be sold. Things to be done. God to be praised. Siblings and circumstances to be forgotten.

**VI. Sun**

With the strength of his government and his people's culture and pride, England was back on his feet, fully healed in only a matter of days. Had he been fully human, it would have been another month or two, and probably would have died. England had no use for his toy, Scotland, and paid little attention to him.

On July the 5th, 1709, Queen Anne, on behest of a Sir Arthur Kirkland ordered for the release of Craig Kirkland from prison, and to rescind all his titles and duties.

In other words, a non-Nation.

A Nation alive, but without proper sovereignty over their country. Scotland was nothing more than a Colony, an ant on the bottom of England's shoe, as he trekked his way to world domination.

Scotland was outside for the first time in nearly eighteen months. The sun was warm. The sky was clear. Markets were buzzing with fervor. There were things to be sold. Things to be done. God to be praised. Siblings and circumstances to be forgotten.

**Footnotes:**

**Queen Anne was the last monarch of England and Scotland, and signed the Acts of Union of 1707. She didn't exactly leave the happiest of careers or lives.**

**After the Acts of Union were signed, there were bits of opposition. And by bits I mean "threats of widespread civil unrest and…Parliament imposing martial law." [wikipedia /Anne_of_Great_Britain]**

**No one saw that Pirates reference.**

**Darien. Actually a real colony. Scotland tried, but failed miserably to start a colony in the late 17th century on the isthmus of ****Panama. It didn't really kick off due to financial strains and Spanish military pressure. The failure of the Darien Scheme, as the Wikipedia page calls it, was the final nail that shut Scotland's sovereignty down. Scotland realized it wasn't going to be a major player in world economics and petitioned England to buy its debt and stabilize their currency. They didn't have the money or resource to keep going. I might have taken some literary liberties with the food thing. I admit, I have more to learn about this time period.**

**"With skin so dry and course, it stretched like a harlequin costume?" But, the skin disease that Darien has because of this "unholy alliance" is called Harlequin type ichthyosis. I hope you forgive the history-bending because the first recorded instance of this disease was in 1750.**

**Other footnotes:**

**So, here's some more headcanon. When a Nation and a human get together and try to have a child, the result is usually lethal for the child, if it survives pregnancy. Now, I'm going to sidestep science for a bit because I don't want to sound like a complete tool who doesn't know what she's talking about. **

**"Lady O'Kirt." So, according to this website [[DOT]/qx/kirkland-family-crest[DOT]htm], "Kirkland" is actually a Scottish last name, meaning church land. One of the many different corruptions or variations to this last name is "Kirt." Though in headcanon, they are siblings by blood, Ireland changes her last name as an effort to distinguish herself from Arthur.**

**And with this installment complete, Scotland returns to America to meet a rather…grown Alfred, and we start to delve into the Scottish implants in American culture.**


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III: 1718**

**I. Return**

New ships in port meant three things: more supplies, more money, and more people. Alfred never had a problem with the first two, and didn't really mind the third. He was comfortable around people, always had been, no matter their creed or country of origin. But there was something about _this_ ship. Something familiar. Something curious. It had drawn Alfred, now in his mid-teenage years (still getting used to his longer and leaner body, and dropping voice), to the docks.

"Oi! Alfred!" a voice behind him called.

Alfred turned. It was Cecil Montgomery, a boy of fourteen or fifteen years, with light temperament, but quick temper. The Montgomery family lived in the same area as Alfred's two story estate, near the log and tin cabin that hadn't been occupied for nearly eighty years. They weren't a rich family, but weren't poor either; they lived within their sustenance, nothing more. They were from Glasgow.

"What're you doing out here?" Cecil asked, trotting to Alfred's side, the two of them weaving through the crowded port town. "Aincha momma or pop gonna worry?"

"They know where I am," Alfred said, the lie so rehearsed, he said it without breaking his stride.

It was still a new sensation, interacting with a member of Jamestown, a little buzz in the back of his mind, like a dream he was trying to remember, or a fact he couldn't quite spit out. Sometimes, just being around them was equivalent to two cups of black coffee. Other times, it was more depressing than five pints of whiskey.

Alfred had done some traveling up and down the seaboard, and felt the same buzz in all the cities. Alfred had yet to discern if it was a Colonial feeling, or if it was the hum of something far greater.

"What about you, Cecil? Don't you have things to do? Like make sure your sisters don't wonder off?" Alfred asked, stopping at the dock.

"Brian's watchin' 'em right now. I'm out to get the paper fer Da. Where's this one comin' in from?" Cecil made a motion to the ship. "London?"

"Yup," Alfred said. The sun had peaked through the clouds, blinding his sight; he put up his hand to block it out. With the blow of a whistle, passengers began to pile out, like ale spilled from a stein. Some stood in awe at the town before them, either amazed that such a bastion of civilization exited, or that society had made such little leaps since its founding over a century ago. They were Scottish. A few Welsh. A few English. A sprinkle of Germans. But, mostly Scottish.

"You know anyone aboard?" Cecil asked.

Alfred shook his head. "I don't see any—"

And there, Alfred stopped. A scraggly man, maybe five-ten, with deep auburn hair, tied back, dressed in simple cotton homespun clothes, climbed off the ship. His floppy hat kept his face hidden in late afternoon shadows. Despite his rough edges, the man looked young enough, about twenty or so years.

_I know this man_, Alfred thought. There was something about the way he carried himself. The material of clothes. Something familiar. This wasn't the same hum he would have if he were around his constituents. This was stronger. The very ends of his fingertips buzzed. The man gave his regards to the port authority.

Alfred's eyebrows creased in concentration. If only he could get a look at his face. If only he were closer…

"Alfred?" Cecil asked. The boy's voice disappeared in the clamor of the port town, and Alfred made his way to the man. _He's Scottish. _Of this, Alfred was certain. The young Colony slipped into the crowd, treading against the flow. And with his Colonial charisma, people assumed the fifteen year old was _supposed _to be there anyway, so no one bothered him.

The Scottish man stepped into a stream of light, enough that Alfred could see the man's _very_ prominent eyebrows.

And suddenly he knew.

**II. Recognition Reprise**

"Craig Kirkland?" Alfred tried. The Scottish man, ripped from his thoughts, turned his gaze to Alfred. The fifteen year old's stomach churned. Had he guessed improperly? "Sir…I don't know…I don't know if you know who I am, a-a-and I'm not sure i-if I know who you are and—"

_Crack!_

The man had popped the back of Alfred's head.

"Aye, I'm Craig Kirkland. And you're Alfred. I take it I'm yer Uncle. Don't fumble with yer words like an idiot."

"U-uncle?"

"Arthur's yer guardian, right? I'm his older brother. Fer all intents and purposes, that makes me yer uncle."

"Oh."

Scotland—Craig—smiled, the lines around his face cracking as though he had not really smiled in quite some time. He ruffled Alfred's wheat gold hair and chuckled.

"You little shit."

**III. All Things Possible**

A loud _knock, knock, knock_ slammed Alfred back into the world of consciousness. Cracking his eyes open, Alfred saw that the sky was still a deep shade of purple and even the stars had not lost their glitter. He groaned and pulled his blankets over his head. The roosters had yet to call. He should have had another hour to himself.

The sharp jab of a fully packed rucksack popped him wide awake. He yelped and bolted upright. His heart thrummed against his ribcage like a snare's drumroll. There in the doorway, Scotland stood laughing. He was dressed casually (though it was a sight to behold when Scotland cleaned up his act); his own packed rucksack over his shoulders.

"Get dressed," he said.

Alfred was still having a hard time connecting what had just happened with the early morning. Eyes darting between the ruck and his uncle, Alfred's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What?"

"Did I stutter, lad? Get dressed. I'm taking you out."

"At _dawn_?"

Scotland didn't dignify the question, turned on his heel and left…probably to prepare the horses. The teenager muttered to himself unpleasantries towards his kin as he pulled on cold breeches and fumbled for his boots in the lowlight.

Whenever England took him places, it was either north to Boston, south to Charleston or on the open sea. Their expeditions began early, but never this early. And England seemed to have an utter disdain for all that was land-bound and wild. Scotland, on the other hand—the more uncivilized the land, the more he would thrive.

"Ready, lad?"

Scotland saddled his chestnut steed in one fell swoop. Even with Scotland's scruff, he looked a touch more dignified on the back of a Quarter Horse.

Alfred's horse, Spiderbite, a spotted Saddle Bred, was dignified in its own sense. But it had been some time since Alfred had taken her out…and he had grown five inches since then. In turn, it took three times for the child Nation to pull himself over the saddle. Scotland shot him a look—_why is it taking you so sodding long?_

Alfred's cheeks burned and his gaze dropped to the grass.

"Yeh know…took me about fifty years to get used to me own growth spurt."

Alfred popped his attention to his uncle. "Really?"

"It gets better." Driving his heels into the steed and with a _heya_, Scotland blazed their path out of civilization.

Behind them: tightly wound towns and cobbled streets; the hum and rhythm of people and goods always in transaction. Heavy air, salt flavored from the bay and a two-storied home built for a Nation and his ward.

An eagle cawed above, and the sound seemed to echo off the boundless blue itself. Alfred took his hat off and wiped a strain of sweat from his forehead. He seemed to only breathe heat and dust.

"Alfred," Scotland called. They were on the edge of a mild cliff, but Alfred was deeper in the shrubbery, trying to escape the heat. Scotland jerked his head toward the view and the child Nation followed.

"How old are yeh now, Alfred?"

"Um…England says he found me in early July. So…about a hundred, I'd suppose."

"Arthur."

"Beg pardon?"

"His name's Arthur. It was sem'thin' else when we was kids, but that's the most modern version. Arthur Kirkland. No middle name. England…the British Empire…titles. Take away his regalia and gold, and all yeh have is a bad Catholic and worse attitude."

Alfred had no idea where his for-all-intents-and-purposes-Uncle was going with this. The older Nation looked over his shoulder to Alfred.

"Yer Nationhood is only one part-a yeh soul, Alfred. Yeh can't ignore yer human side." Alfred wrinkled his nose and creased his brow in confusion. England had said Nations were at the behest of their Kings and their God. National duty dictated that they put their people before themselves_. Desire is not an option for their kind._ Scotland took no heed to the boy's speculation.

"Call me Scotland and I'll pop yeh so hard you'll forget _all _about National duty." The older Nation motioned to the land below them. "What do yeh see?"

"Hills. A lot of trees. I can't see 'em, but there are creeks and rivers in there. Animals live in the trees, in the rivers, and the forests. There are Injuns out there too. But…it's mostly uncharted and uncivilized."

"Aye. And in the future? Near or far?"

"Towns. Maybe…maybe one day, cities as large as London."

Scotland laughed. "That's a hefty bill. Yeh ain't even ever been to the city."

"I've been a few times. But I was a kid and I don't remember much."

"You're still a kid."

"There'll be schools and churches. Places for people to study God's wonders and worship Him. Places of commerce. We'll trade with the Injuns and whoever lives around here. There'll be farms. Wheat, I suppose, maybe cotton or tobacco. I'm not sure what would grow well out here.

"Men will come first and carve the land for the women and children. Those families will move out and repeat the cycle."

As he spoke, his chest warmed (but it was a pleasant glow, unlike this wretched noonday's gaze) and a smile crept upon his chapped lips.

"D'yeh really think people can tame all that?"

"With trust in Providence…" Alfred looked at Scotland, whose thick eyebrows were set in concentration and against the strain of the sun. Scotland returned the glance. Alfred bit his bottom lip. They weren't talking of National duty, but of the will of humans.

But, Alfred could not separate himself from the words he uttered: "With trust in Divine Providence…I believe man is…capable of anything. That he can do _all _things, if only he wills it."

Scotland smirked and ruffled the child Nation's hair. "Yeh will become a fine Nation, indeed, son."

Scotland clicked the roof of his mouth, and turned his steed around, trotting back to the trail. It took Alfred a moment to collect himself, the weight of Scotland's words and implications slowly percolating through the back of his mind.

Scotland…Craig…called the boy Nation…_son._

**IV. A World Away**

The campfire crackled; the only light in this moonless evening.

Alfred was curled up next to him, fast asleep, snoring slightly. His face was bright red from the day's travels and surely, he'd complain about it in the morning. Scotland opened his satchel and removed a crumpled letter. Ireland's slanted, loopy writing was unmistakable. He tore it open.

_Dear Craig,_

_It is wonderful to hear from you. I was worried sick when news came to me of what our fair youngest sibling had done to you. I know the Celtic blood and stubbornness run thick in your veins, and I know you've been through worse, but that did not stop my sisterly woes. Keep giving him hell, boy._

_I have just received your sketch of the newest member to the Kirkland family (blessings upon him. He'll surely need it with this bunch). He's growing steadfast and strong into quite the handsome young man. He has my nose, how curious! And Arthur's ears (poor lad). Where his cheekbones come from, gracious, I don't know, but he is blessed indeed. _

_Tell me, Craig, what does our bonnie lad think of? What makes him laugh and smile? Is he faithful to the Word? I hear so much of what he does, but I want to know my wee nephew._

_Teach that boy right, Craig Kirkland. Lord knows Arthur won't. _

_Have you learned of his National lineage?_

_I would like to visit the colonies. Hopefully before the turn of the century._

_With all my love,_

_Fiona O'Kirt_

_._

_._

_._

_Fi—_

_Addressing the ill news first. No, I haven't found his National parentage. Know this, however, that I do have my suspicions. I fear they are closer to reality than I would care to admit. _

_Alfred is a wonderful lad. Inquisitive, stubborn, quick with smile and joke. What makes him laugh and smile? The question should be what doesn't? His eyes are always trained on the sky, except when he's asleep. And even then, I'm sure he dreams of flight upon the backs of giant eagles. He's a bit soft right now, but his heart's always in the right place. _

_The beastie grew five inches in a decade. He's still getting used to his limbs—clumsy as a newborn kitten. A wonderful sign as to the health and prosperity of colonies, if not a bit awkward for him._

_With so many of your people invading his shores, Alfred is very curious to meet his Catholic aunt. Come with haste. You already adore him from a world away. I'm sure that when you finally meet the little shit, you'll love him all the more. It's what people do when they're around him. Love him._

_Keep strong in these troubling, changing times._

_Your brother,_

_Craig_

**V. Them's fightin' words**

At one of the taverns in between Jamestown and Wherever They Were Going, a patron called Alfred a timber nigger and proceeded to harass one of the younger servers. Alfred protested and began to defend the young woman's honor, but learned the hard lesson that a drunken man's left hook could be just as powerful as a sober man's. Craig laughed.

A prelude to the afternoon's real event. Barefoot and shirtless in an open pasture, Alfred and Craig circled each other. Alfred's lip was now bleeding and his back was beginning to ache and cramp after falling so many times. The bloody lip complimented his shiner from the tavern nicely, like cream and coffee.

"Keep yer hands loose 'til yeh need t'punch," Craig said. He shuffled to the right and Alfred followed, trying to remember where his feet were supposed to line up. He dropped his eyes for a hot second to check.

Craig popped his ears.

"Look forward! Tuck yer chin in, boy!"

Alfred shook his head, trying to stabilize the Earth's rapid spinning. He breathed liquid fire into his exhausted lungs. Grass and sweat met in an awful combination, and it felt as though every nerve ending was struck by lightning. His tongue heavy with thirst. The child Nation wanted nothing more than to take his breeches off and jump in the nearest creek.

Jab, cross, left hook.

Craig blocked them as he would a bothersome fly.

"Yeh talk a big game, Alfie, but yeh gotta have sem'thin' t'back it up. What do yeh have to back up yer big words?"

"My fists?" Alfred breathed.

Craig scoffed and popped his ears again. "Yeh will if yeh listen t'me. What else yeh got?"

Alfred waited for the world to stop spinning again. "Rifles. Knives."

A jab to his shoulder. It pounded as though it had its own heartbeat. Alfred doubled behind the pain. "Stand up. And no. Those're material things. What yeh got?"

Craig pulled an uppercut, but Alfred popped back in time.

Alfred huffed out, "V-valor. Don't lie. Don't cheat. Don't steal."

Alfred delivered a one-two to Craig's chest, but the older Nation blocked and dodged them, and in doing so, found an easy entry to the boy's soul-plexus. One solid strike and Alfred fell back into the grass with such force, he could have sworn he left a dent. On fire, there was nothing for his body to do. Except—oh, Lord, there it was—his eyes stung and cheeks were now wet.

Bloody fantastic.

"Are yeh _crying_?" Craig demanded. Craig took more offense to this than Alfred's horribly placed punches and stance. No help was given to Alfred as he pulled himself up. He still clutched his stomach and sniffled, trying to reign in the tears, but the streaks on his dirt-caked face betrayed him.

"Men don't _cry_, Alfred Farley Kirkland."

"But what then of Nations, if we're not men?"

It was impertinent and Alfred really shouldn't have been surprised that Craig boxed his ears hard enough that…yes, now there was blood seeping from his ears. This, of course, did not help the present circumstance of Alfred crying.

"God made cryin fer women. Men? We were meant t'fight. God, family, country, Alfred, in that order. That's who we fight fer. And if yeh can't manage that, well…yer ain't worth more than the dirt yeh walk on.

"Yeh did good in the tavern, standin' up fer that lass, but yeh ain't got control. Yer a smart lad, but smarts ain't nothin' if yeh don't apply it. This is where yeh apply."

Alfred wiped his cheekbones with the back of his wrist.

"Yeh can't go t'war all the sodding time. Yeh gotta settle some scores between yerself and another Nation like this. Yeh gotta rely on these," he motioned to his fists, "when yeh can rely on no one else." Craig settled into his position.

Able to breathe, able to see, but the jury was still out on hearing, Alfred followed suit.

They danced, throwing punches and dodging them, until—

Jab to Craig's left cheekbone.

A right uppercut to the soul-plexus.

A left hook to his kidney.

A right hand to pop his hear.

It took a moment or two, but Scotland recovered. And with a beaming smile, he wheezed, "You little shit! _That's_ what I'm talkin' about!"

* * *

**Footnotes!**

**Today we focus primarily on Ulster Scots and their impact on American culture, although, trust me, I am only scratching the surface with their contributions, and much more will be delved into in the upcoming chapters.**

**You know the Ulster Scots as Scotch-Irish. The first big wave of their immigration began in 1717. By 1770, at least 200,000 populated the American colonies. The Scotch-Irish pushed into the Appalachians, southeast Pennsylvania, Virginia, North Carolina, and eventually Tennessee. **

**I finally found my "How the Scots Invented the Modern World" book, all marked up with highlights and fic-notes. This was my favorite part of the chapter used for this segment:**

**(Page 234)**

**"Placenames and language reflected their northern Irish or Southern Lowlands origin. They said "whar" for where, "thar" for "there," "critter" for creature"…and the young 'uns "growed up" instead of "grew up"…The language was also shamelessly intimate and earthy: passerby were addressed as "honey" and children as "little shits."**

**Yes. These are proto-rednecks.**

**The line, "I believe man is…capable of anything. That he can do _all _things, if only he wills it," also comes from my book. This is a Renaissance thought, but (page 388), "It was the Scots who would show the rest of the Americans how to operate in that kind of social and cultural void—where nothing seems impossible, where a man can take his skills and his willpower and turn it into gold." Scotland and its philosophies are very humanistic. We've only introduced the concepts, but we'll get more into this as chapters go on, promise!**

**The "training-montage" scene is inspired by the Scotch-Irish almost warrior culture, where a keen sense of valor was respected above all else. Andrew Jackson's mom once told him (Page 236): "Never tell a lie, nor take what is not your own, nor sue anybody for slander, assault or battery. Always settle them cases yourself." She scolded him one day saying," Stop that, Andrew. Do not let me see you cry again. Girls were made to cry, not boys." When Andrew asked what boys were made for, she said, "To fight."**

**To clear up any questions about the off-screen tavern scene. Why the patron called Alfred a timber nigger (a really derogatory term for Native Americans)—we will get into that very, very shortly. This story is just as much about the lineage of Nations as it is about Scotland raising America in Arthur's absence.**

**Hope you stick around for that part of the story! And I hope you enjoyed this segment after almost a year being away from it. I thoroughly enjoy writing these guys, and I hope you like reading them.**


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